After four volumes is there still water in the well? Little should be needed for a measly hundred words. But all I draw is dregs of micfic past: images that never floated, metaphors too mixed to rise from their ashes and similes like an old car with an unreliable ignition coil.
I touch things I threw back as too strange, too frail or too ugly: the drunken rambling without legs; that voiceless dialogue; the enlightened duck pie and most of all, the hive monologue on truth.
They mock me from their unwritten limbo.
Water enough for a nostalgic drabble?